Page 98 of Tipping Point

“Tested clean.”

“Then when’s the last time you showered?”

I shrug again.

When he hands me my helmet, we both take a moment to watch my shaking hands as I take it from him.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” he bursts out.

I had planned to die on the Austin circuit, and here I was, three races later, having nothing but memories of Camille to torture myself with. Her tear-stained cheeks. The morning when she sat on the countertop, swinging her legs. In Japan, In Singapore. At my own fucking house, where I swear to God the burnt sugar smell of her lingers.

I need this to end. Now. This fucking torture needs to end.

Jack accompanies me to the car and clips me into the harness while he points out the corners I need to watch out for.

I have an awful starting position. I’m fourteenth on the grid.

There used to be a time that I would have been happy with that.

I watch as Jack leaves, but he only takes a few steps before he turns to me, confused. His time is up, he needs to leave, and he turns back, jogs away.

I unclip the harness.

Moments later, he comes on over comms.

“Finn.” It’s a statement.

“Loud and clear.”

“You didn’t touch the buttons.”

“What?”

“Your pre-race ritual. You didn’t do it.”

I ignore him.

“Erik,” Jack’s gruff voice comes on, “withdraw Brennan.”

“What?” Erik’s voice is two octaves higher. “What’s going on?”

“Something isn’t right,” Jack continues bullishly. “You need to withdraw Finn from the race.”

Fuck that.

“All clear from me,” I say casually.

It goes quiet as Erik thinks it over.

“Stop the fucking race!” Jack bursts out. “I’m telling you-” His radio gets switched off. We’re not really allowed to swear. All our comms are available for the stewards, and it’s considered poor taste. Jack swears a lot. The techs know that when he swears, they need to pull him from comms.

I’m so furious with him, it makes me happy. I grin inside my helmet.

The revving of engines around me is the sweet cacophony of my life, and I join in superciliously. When the countdown starts, I’m roaring to go.

It’s not the poetic end I had planned for myself in Austin, but I’m happy to be in the car, my hands shaking on the wheel.

And for seven laps I think of nothing but the moments of joy I had with Camille, moments that Grace was denied, and on the eighth lap, I live the dream. I open the throttle to the max and watch as the numbers spill up as the speed increases. The engine roars under the strain as I push on.

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